[ His smile is a wry one. If he wasn't so used to how she was, he might have even winced at the sharpness her tone had taken. ]
Nothing worth concerning myself over, huh…?
[ Of course she’d say that. Had he expected her answer to be any different? Had he really expected her to maybe, just this once—
But no. That was just his own wishful thinking. That maybe, one of these days, she might actually talk to him like he tries to talk to her. That maybe this time he won’t have to try to read between the lines of what she says, save every near-monosyllabic answer she sees fit to give him and decode the message hidden within the shell of words. Maybe it was selfish of him to want something like that.
And maybe she’s right. Maybe none of this is any of his business—nothing “worth concerning” himself over—and he should leave her be to sort herself out. He knows that there are differences between her model and his. And he knows that, because of it, there are times he probably crosses lines that were never meant to be crossed, all to satisfy the innate need inside his core to have an answer to everything. To know everything. Like anything that dared to brush past even the fringes of his vast curiosity was his concern.
He shakes his head, dismissing the cloud of intrusive thoughts from him like 2B had her own pod’s seed of a proposal. His eyes had never really left her. He can’t make out her face anymore, but his eyes can follow the all-too-rigid outline of her body. He can remember how her hands had strangled the sheets just moments before, recall how her eyes had looked (and maybe still do), and feels more stabbing through him than just some kind of selfish curiosity. No one should have to look like that. Even over nothing. ] But that’s what I’m here for, aren’t I?
[ To be in charge of her maintenance. There are times when he doubts that’s the real reason. Times when he starts to feel like his being here is just an afterthought, or some other just as unpalatable reason that his mind can't yet unravel. He’s seen 2B work. She’s efficient. More efficient than he is. And there’s rarely been a mission where he hasn’t felt like she couldn't have accomplished it all on her own. Like his being there was a waste of resources—not that he begrudges his assignment. He’d rather be here than somewhere out there, all on his own with only his pod for company. But the idea still eats at him. ]
You know… there’s nothing wrong about admitting you’re not… [ He searches for as neutral of a word as possible, but isn’t convinced that he's found it in the seconds he gives himself to.] fine. [ To make up for it, he lets his tone lift. Like he’s talking about something as unoffensive, inconspicuous, and normal as the weather. Like he hadn’t heard her call out his name that she’s up until now refused to call him. ] I mean, it’s not “forbidden” or anything, last I checked. It was some kind of bad dream, right?
[ As close as they can get to them, anyway, for non-organic creations. Memories reorganizing themselves, sometimes briefly blending into others as data overwrites data while their automatic processes direct new packets of information to where they needs to go, always keeping everything that was deemed most important stored in memory that was quicker and easier to access, less likely to be muffled underneath the noise of everything else. He’s not sure where he comes into the equation—if he even does. Maybe something had happened back in the factory that he can’t remember. But the thought that maybe he had done something to make her look like that (something he maybe can’t even remember) disturbs him more than he thinks it should, and he feels his own body tense up for a few, long seconds. ]
I get those too sometimes. And if they bother you, there are things that I can do to make you less likely to have them.
no subject
Nothing worth concerning myself over, huh…?
[ Of course she’d say that. Had he expected her answer to be any different? Had he really expected her to maybe, just this once—
But no. That was just his own wishful thinking. That maybe, one of these days, she might actually talk to him like he tries to talk to her. That maybe this time he won’t have to try to read between the lines of what she says, save every near-monosyllabic answer she sees fit to give him and decode the message hidden within the shell of words. Maybe it was selfish of him to want something like that.
And maybe she’s right. Maybe none of this is any of his business—nothing “worth concerning” himself over—and he should leave her be to sort herself out. He knows that there are differences between her model and his. And he knows that, because of it, there are times he probably crosses lines that were never meant to be crossed, all to satisfy the innate need inside his core to have an answer to everything. To know everything. Like anything that dared to brush past even the fringes of his vast curiosity was his concern.
He shakes his head, dismissing the cloud of intrusive thoughts from him like 2B had her own pod’s seed of a proposal. His eyes had never really left her. He can’t make out her face anymore, but his eyes can follow the all-too-rigid outline of her body. He can remember how her hands had strangled the sheets just moments before, recall how her eyes had looked (and maybe still do), and feels more stabbing through him than just some kind of selfish curiosity. No one should have to look like that. Even over nothing. ] But that’s what I’m here for, aren’t I?
[ To be in charge of her maintenance. There are times when he doubts that’s the real reason. Times when he starts to feel like his being here is just an afterthought, or some other just as unpalatable reason that his mind can't yet unravel. He’s seen 2B work. She’s efficient. More efficient than he is. And there’s rarely been a mission where he hasn’t felt like she couldn't have accomplished it all on her own. Like his being there was a waste of resources—not that he begrudges his assignment. He’d rather be here than somewhere out there, all on his own with only his pod for company. But the idea still eats at him. ]
You know… there’s nothing wrong about admitting you’re not… [ He searches for as neutral of a word as possible, but isn’t convinced that he's found it in the seconds he gives himself to.] fine. [ To make up for it, he lets his tone lift. Like he’s talking about something as unoffensive, inconspicuous, and normal as the weather. Like he hadn’t heard her call out his name that she’s up until now refused to call him. ] I mean, it’s not “forbidden” or anything, last I checked. It was some kind of bad dream, right?
[ As close as they can get to them, anyway, for non-organic creations. Memories reorganizing themselves, sometimes briefly blending into others as data overwrites data while their automatic processes direct new packets of information to where they needs to go, always keeping everything that was deemed most important stored in memory that was quicker and easier to access, less likely to be muffled underneath the noise of everything else. He’s not sure where he comes into the equation—if he even does. Maybe something had happened back in the factory that he can’t remember. But the thought that maybe he had done something to make her look like that (something he maybe can’t even remember) disturbs him more than he thinks it should, and he feels his own body tense up for a few, long seconds. ]
I get those too sometimes. And if they bother you, there are things that I can do to make you less likely to have them.